


Air France Flight 3677, JFK to CDG

by diabolica



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Episode: s02e13 Mizumono, F/M, Missing Scene, Pre-Season/Series 03
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-19
Updated: 2020-08-19
Packaged: 2021-03-06 06:47:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,740
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25989193
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/diabolica/pseuds/diabolica
Summary: Taking liberties. Pushing boundaries. This is what he does. She knows this.Or: Five-ish steps to leaving the country with a wanted man.
Relationships: Bedelia Du Maurier/Hannibal Lecter
Comments: 22
Kudos: 45
Collections: Hannibal Bingo





	Air France Flight 3677, JFK to CDG

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for my [Hannibal Bingo](https://hannibalbingo.tumblr.com/) card. The prompt was "flight". Many thanks to the lovely [dexstarr](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dexstarr/profile) for beta-reading.

It begins at the airport, before they even arrive at the check in desk.

Hannibal takes her hand as she alights from the hotel shuttle, accepts their bags from the driver and discreetly slips the man a crisp green bill. He shoulders the weekender bag and extends the telescopic handle on her carry-on suitcase, which she had never unpacked after returning to Baltimore a lifetime or 48 hours ago. This leaves Bedelia with nothing to carry but her handbag. Then he reaches for her hand, threading his fingers through hers as easily as if he's done this every day for the last twenty years. Bedelia's first instinct is to pull her hand away, but this entire experience already feels so much like a dream that it is simpler just to follow his lead.

She has disconnected memories of a train journey from Baltimore, of trailing after Hannibal through mid-town Manhattan in the middle of a week day, of a night in an aseptic corporate airport hotel with two separate beds. She has the feeling she has been moving underwater, in the world but apart from it, not quite able to break the surface. She also has a headache that is almost certainly tension related.

Inside the terminal Hannibal checks the departure board and selects the correct line. They stand, like all the other people about to depart on business or vacation. He says nothing, eyes scanning the crowd, utterly calm.

When they arrive at the head of the line Hannibal asks her, "May I have your passport please?" She passes it to him and he slots her ticket into the cover just as they're called up to the check in desk. He places two passports on the counter and says to the clerk, "Paris Charles de Gaulle."

It is her first indication of where they are headed. 

The young woman behind the counter wears a nametag that says Anne-Marie. She has that well-scrubbed generic look of front-end airline employees: minimal makeup, shiny hair and nails all regulation length. She examines their passports and tickets, tapping away at her computer keyboard. "Any bags to check in?" she asks.

"No," Hannibal replies. "It's a short trip, just for a long weekend. I know we could have used the check in kiosks," he tells Anne-Marie apologetically, "but I'm an old man and I find them so fussy. I prefer to speak to a real person whenever possible."

He smiles then, and Bedelia sees someone she has never known. His face is open, almost boyish. His eyes practically twinkle. Anne-Marie responds with her own thousand-watt grin.

"You don't look that old to me," she says, playful.

"Ah, but you see I need to keep fit because I have a beautiful young wife to please." Hannibal pulls Bedelia close, an arm round her shoulder, and drops a kiss on the top of her head. Anne-Marie looks at Bedelia, and the quirk of her mouth says how sweet—how _romantic_ —she finds this. Bedelia half-expects her to swoon. 

In her capacity as Hannibal's psychiatrist, as his colleague, Bedelia has never been subjected to a full Lecter charm offensive. The spectacle might be entertaining, in other circumstances. 

They are not wearing wedding rings. Bedelia had not realised until this moment that they must look, to an outsider, to someone who didn’t look too closely, like a typical middle-aged married couple. Well-dressed, a little tired, possibly with a couple of kids already at college or staying with grandparents. Off to Paris for a long weekend. Anne-Marie has already accepted this as truth while Bedelia is still trying to wrap her head round the situation.

"And have your bags been in your possession since you packed them?" asks Anne-Marie.

"Absolutely," answers Hannibal.

"Window or aisle?"

Hannibal turns to Bedelia, solicitous. "What do you think, darling? You prefer the window, don't you?"

"Yes," Bedelia says, because it seems like the appropriate thing in the circumstances.

"Then I will have the aisle, as I should." Hannibal leans in towards Anne-Marie, elbow on the counter, his voice lowered. "It's our second honeymoon," he tells her. 

"How lovely," she says, clearly buying whatever he is selling.

"Everything I have right now I owe to this woman." Hannibal straightens, looking right at Bedelia now as if she is something precious to him, as if the connection they have is based on love, or trust. "And I get to spend the rest of my life with her. I feel like the luckiest man in the world."

It takes all of Bedelia's not inconsiderable self control not to burst out laughing. Or screaming. 

"Laying it on a bit thick, aren't you ... dear?" Bedelia says. The word feels wrong in her mouth. It feels wrong applied to Hannibal, though she can't think of a word that fits better. 

He smirks. “How can I help myself?” 

Anne-Marie chuckles indulgently. Then, as if mulling something over, she says, "Well, because it is such a special occasion, would you like a pair of passes to the first class lounge?"

Hannibal's expression is one of pleasant surprise. "You could arrange that?"

"I think we can work something out."

"That would be lovely, thank you. My wife deserves nothing but the best." Again, he squeezes Bedelia’s shoulder, pulls her in close and rests his chin on her hair. Her arms wind automatically around his waist. They might as well.

A few more clicks and Anne-Marie hands back their passports, along with their boarding and lounge passes.

"Enjoy your second honeymoon, Mr. and Mrs. Du Maurier," she says warmly.

 _Doctor_ , Bedelia nearly says. She always insists on using her title; she earned it. But Hannibal is already thanking Anne-Marie in his gentlemanly fashion and leading Bedelia away.

The security line is mercifully, unusually short for JFK. Hannibal places the bags, which he's still carrying, on the belt. Long practice has Bedelia opening the front pocket of her carry-on, removing the liquids pouch and placing it in a tray, together with her keys and phone, moving everything down the conveyor towards the x-ray machines. Ordinary things, occurring in the expected sequence, and she helpless to stop them. 

She removes her shoes and Hannibal takes them from her, placing them in the tray with his own shoes and neatly folded suit coat. He remembers last minute to remove his belt and tosses it into the tray next to her handbag. Mingling their possessions the way a husband would.

After clearing security, Hannibal sorts through their belongings. He hands her shoes back to her and when she bends to put them on she notices her phone disappearing into his pocket.

They follow the signs towards their departure gate and lounge. Well, Hannibal follows the signs; Bedelia follows Hannibal. Along the way he stops to drop something into a trash container, and Bedelia thinks, _There goes my phone._ She wonders if he turned it off first, or if the FBI will eventually trace it to a landfill somewhere in New York. She wonders how long it will take for anyone to notice and report her missing.

It's not until they enter the first class departure lounge and Hannibal has procured two glasses of champagne that she finally finds words to express herself.

"So," she says. "What is in Paris?"

"Adventure," Hannibal says, genial. He has seated himself comfortably beside her. He stretches his legs out before him and slides an arm round her shoulders. "Culture. Romance. Excellent food." He sounds like a tour guide. He clinks his glass against the one in her hand and says, " À ta santé."

"Santé," she replies automatically, not looking at him. Bedelia sips her champagne slowly. She hasn't yet decided whether this will be a more bearable experience drunk or sober.

Finally: "I am wondering whether it would be worth asking for more information at this point," she says, mostly to herself. 

"Definitely not. In fact, this would be a very good opportunity for you to practice living in the moment. You really should learn to let go." His hand comes to rest at the base of her neck, skilful surgeon’s fingers kneading at the muscles there. Splenius capitis, splenius cervicis. Taking liberties. Pushing boundaries. This is what he does. She knows this.

She can't deny that it feels lovely. 

Her headache eases and she lets out a slow breath. As the pain dissolves her mind is working through all the times Hannibal tried to cross the lines she had drawn to keep things between them professional. Little skirmishes along borders she’d thought well defended, meant to misdirect her attention. His true target still eludes her.

She raises her glass to her lips again only to find it empty.

Hannibal has interested himself in the headlines on CNN. If this were a normal trip, Bedelia would take out a book, or an article for review. She looks around at the other passengers in the lounge, men mostly. Business travellers, conducting business. If she were to approach one of them and say, "The man I am travelling with is a serial killer. Help me," what would happen? Hannibal would probably convince them that his "wife" had just told a bizarre but hysterical joke. 

Their flight is called, Hannibal rises and draws Bedelia after him. When the gate attendant invites all first class passengers to board, Hannibal says, "That's us," and breezes to the front of the line. He still has their travel documents, which he hands over for inspection. As the gate attendant hands back his passport, Bedelia notices the name that appears beside Hannibal's picture: Albert Du Maurier. The edges of her vision turn grey. Her lungs are contracting. 

_What had Anne-Marie said? "Enjoy your second honeymoon, Mr. and Mrs. Du Maurier."_

Her travel documents are handed back and Hannibal tucks them inside his suit jacket. His palm is flat against her back, impelling her through the next open door. 

Bedelia swallows. Her tongue is too thick. "Albert Du Maurier was my father's name," she says.

They have started down the jet bridge. "I know,” Hannibal says. He is rather pointedly not looking at her. 

Exhaustion is settling over her like the steam from a hot bath. She can feel the temptation to sink into it, to let it wash over her, let it clean her like a slate.

The long shallow downward slope of the jet bridge makes it easy to keep putting one foot in front of the other.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading. This is my first foray into the Hannibal fandom, so I would love to hear your thoughts!
> 
> Come and find me on [tumblr](https://plain-as-pandemonium.tumblr.com/).


End file.
